Musings from the mind of a dude obsessed with subjects of no particular importance, or even significance for that matter. Oh, and don't panic about the title. The URL is "ohforfsake.blogspot.com" because the title is "Oh, For FGosh's Sake" everyone knows the f is silent at the beginning of "gosh" in the Queen's English.

In recent years Mr. Suzuki has concentrated his efforts and those of his foundation, the (in our humble opinion) oddly named David Suzuki Foundation, toward helping the public to understand their role in the emerging and scary environmental problem of Global Warming (tm). Time and again, Mr. Suzuki has spoken out about the planet-wide crisis that is possibly Global Warming (tm). He has cited examples of extreme weather events and ever-increasing planetary temperature averages as evidence of the existence of and hell-bent-for-leather path of Global Warming (tm). I don’t think I would be mistaken if I said most of us believed the words of this great man.

Until now. If a picture could say a thousand words this picture says about seventeen thousand three hundred and sixty-one, not including footnotes and photo credits. There is no mistaking what is going on here. David Suzuki has sold out to Big Cold. There could be no more damning evidence than to be caught in a public embrace with Big Cold’s nefarious pitchman, Frosty the Ridiculous and Sexually Ambiguous Quebecois Snowperson. Frosty’s ‘Joe the Camel’ like kid-friendly persona has convinced countless children that the cold is their friend. We can now see that Mr. Suzuki is none other than Frosty’s henchman-in-arms, charged with the responsibility of luring adults to the seductive power of Big Cold’s Hidden Agenda, using the ominous and vaguely defined threat of Global Warming (tm).

We believed in you Mr. Suzuki. This is truly a sad day:

“Just look straight in zee camera and smile, Suzuki. Remember, you could zell ice to an Inuit Person! Ha Ha! I make zee, how you say, in-the-side joke! I swear, I slay myself sometimes! Now, let’s get out of here and chain-smoke our way through a croissant or two.”

Saturday, June 27, 2009

So much potential…so much potential. Sadly, that large thing lurking in the background of this picture is not a huge tree. It is insanity.

Is this the seventeen millionth blog posting about the death of the King of Poop Pop? Yes. Has everything that could be said about it already been said? Yes. Do I give a fuck? Hell, no! My three readers have probably avoided reading the other stuff until now anyway, due to their hating Ol’ Wacko Jacko. Unfortunately for them however, they are mostly family and thus feel obligated to read this particular blog posting.

With all of the focus on unpaid debts, shit-flinging life-long monkey companions, and minor annoyances like multimillion dollar hush money payments to loud mouthed children, some of the wonderful lessons Michael taught us have been lost. Since it is hard to put a more positive spin on his passing than, well, his passing, I won’t dwell on that here. I would just like to acknowledge some of the important contributions he has made to our collective general psyche over the years. Some rules-to-live-by, if you will:

White guys (or guys of any other shade, for that matter) should never put on a white glove, fedora, and jeri curl to go to a high school dance. The chances of getting laid that year will plummet considerably, as will the chances of ever getting laid in any other year in that town, or any other towns within the range of telephones, letters, or rumours. Might as well skip the reunion, too.

Moonwalking is for people who can actually moonwalk. All others should practice more, or fuck off. Consequences of non-compliance with this rule can include those outlined in item one.

Dangling infants from hotel balconies, while once a perfectly acceptable practice in some parts of the world I am sure, is not a good idea in Europe. Or anywhere else where people know how to operate cameras, think rationally, or have one single iota of common sense anywhere in their bodies.

Letting your kids sleep over at a rich guy’s house, with him, in his bed, is not quite the harmless practice leading to fame and fortune that one might think. No matter how many Llamas, roller coasters, and tight-lipped, well-paid security people the rich guy might have, improper conduct may occur. Actually, maybe we should just not let our kids sleep at any guy’s house, in his bed, ever. For any reason. Or should that be “for obvious reasons?” Simple test: Neighbour Dude: “Hey, can Johnny come over to my house tonight for a sleepover with me in my bed?” You: Option 1: “No, you fucking pedophile!”, Option 2: “Sure, just let me pack up histoothbrush and innocence. You boys have fun!” Trust me, the correct answer is Option 1. How could you have let me go, Mom and Dad?

Surprisingly, being stinking rich does not protect you from the public scorn directed at you for your stupid and psychotic actions, only the consequences of those stupid and psychotic actions. Yup, it’s true. Even after the cheques have been cashed, people might still think you are a douchebag. Sorry Mad Mel and OJ (Round 1 anyway).

Finally, Michael taught us that change is not always a good thing. If you start out life as a good lookin’, ‘fro-sporting African American dude, it is okay to end it like that, too. At no point in one’s life should one succumb to peer pressure or insurmountable insanity and spend millions morphing into a baby-powder white, tinkerbell-nosed, freakish ghoul. Even if you have the money, and that hair-straightener that got re-gifted back to you from your niece last Christmas.

It’s probably a good thing it happened when it did. Two more shades and he would have been clear. Then we would be able to see the inner workings. I picture a lot of demons with a poor little ‘fro sporting kid tied to a chair and gagged. He’s got to be in there somewhere.

Unfortunately, Michael’s death has put millions of losers worldwide into a state of misguided mourning and holocaust-denier-like vehement ignorance regarding the less savoury aspects of his life. Fortunately for me, however, I have a new potential guest for future editions of From Beyond the Grave. Once he’s done with all of the lake-of-fire stuff and has a spare moment, that is.

Monday, June 22, 2009

Here in good old Beaverland, home of everything that is good and right and insecure in this world, we used to have a long-running panel quiz show called Front Page Challenge. Front Page Challenge ran from 1957 to 1995 on the CBC (Canucks Broadcasting Canadians) television network. The show featured a panel of notable journalists (and the occasional celebrity), all of whom asked questions of a mystery guest in an attempt to guess their identity.

Many of us have fond childhood memories of sitting around the igloo or teepee on a frigid mid-summer night, watching Front Page Challenge while we waited for Grandma to thaw out and bake us some seal-blubber cookies. Poor Grandma, she would often get lost on the four hour return trip to the shit-hole chipped through the lake ice. We would find her frozen stiff, squatting against a tree, her knickers still at half-mast, a startled grunt etched into her face. We would dutifully carry her home and prop her up next to the pot-bellied stove, and wait. At times like these we found ourselves entranced by the flickering black and white images and lock-jawed wooden demeanors of the Front Page Challenge panelists. We all dreamed of one day making the FPC panel, or even better yet, appearing as the mysterious and mystery-ish “mystery guest.”

Sadly, in 1995, Front Page Challenge was cancelled by the CBC. An escalating series of budget cuts during previous seasons had seen all of the quiz panel replaced by wooden mannequins save for one (the change oddly going mostly unnoticed), and the mystery guest replaced by Rich Little, doing his classic brand of charmingly shitty Canadian impressions. By the fifteenth episode of the lone panelist guessing the guest’s identity as “Rich Little doing someone? Maybe a famous person?” it was obvious the show’s heyday had come to an end.

Since we are feeling nostalgic, we have decided to recreate a version of Front Page Challenge here in our very own humble little blog. We have invited a panel of today’s preeminent journalists to participate, and they will attempt to discern the identity of our mystery guest through their insightful and probing questions. Without further ado, I would like to introduce our esteemed three-person panel of respected journalists and one guest celebrity:

“Do you have any idea why toilet paper is perforated? I’m almost dead and even I can tear toilet paper. Is the whole thing just to make the toilet paper look better? It’s for wiping up shit isn’t it? Is this what’s wrong with American productivity these days?”

“ Ummm…no. That might be why, I’m not sure. Yes, shit-wiping is it’s main function. Yes, that probably is the root of the productivity problem, I think we’re in agreement there.”

“It seems to me, and this could be completely out of left field, don’t hesitate to let me know, that when one appears as a mystery guest, and mind you, I could be missing the point here, one has implicitly agreed to be a complicit accomplice in the process of demystifying ones’ self in a most public fashion, and forgive me if I have misstated or understated the weighty gravitas of the issue in any way, and please don’t hesitate to weigh in on the issue as yourself or even, as oneself. Please, discuss, if you should be so inclined, and if I’ve neglected to cover off some of the more salient and pertinent points.”

“ Uhh..did that guy just ask a question? Are you Canadians fuckin’ retarded?”

Excellent question yourself, Mystery Guest! To answer I would have to say I’m not sure and probably! Well, so far we aren’t making much headway. Maybe quasi-celebrity guest Paris Hilton will have a little better luck. Quiz away, Paris!

“Uh, are you, like, bigger than a breadbox?”

“Did you just call me fat, bitch? Watch it, you might find yourself on the internet with “slut” or “ho” written across your picture if you don’t control that mouth of yours!”

“Hey, I think I know who you are! Did you just recently get punched right in your stupid face and make everyone laugh at a club in Toronto? And did you also just recently commit career hari-kari by trying to ask a Miss USA contestant about her thoughts on gay marriage even though people could not possibly give less of a fuck what some dipshit beauty queen thinks about anything, let alone a serious issue? Do you have the same last name as me, but without the inheritance or importanance? Are you none other than loser blogger Perez Hilton?”

“Yes, it’s me, Paris. How the hell did you figure it out? I don’t know why I agreed to be on this stupid Blog Page Challenge remake crap anyway. Twenty Canadian dollars and a blowjob from Rich Little sounded good at the time, but having to talk to you dickheads just wasn’t worth it! And just to let you know, America does care what vapid, bleach-blonde beauty queens think about important stuff, why do you think anyone even talks to you?" Oh, right, the leg-spreading. Never mind. And on another note, fuck you Canada! Don’t be surprised if you see yourself featured on my blog with white stuff dribbling down your chin, and “ho” scrawled across your picture!”

Well, that went incredibly poorly! I really didn’t expect Paris to figure out our Mystery Guest’s identity. I guess it just goes to show how these bottom-feeders can sniff each other out! Hopefully our next attempt will go a little better. Maybe we can increase our budget and afford some real panelists and guests, instead of tonight’s lineup of Hitler Youth Volunteer Troop Leader Ann Coulter, Re-animated Fossil Andy Rooney, Marble-Mouthed Nonsense Spewer and Canadian Journalistic Icon Rex Murphy, and Hollywood Pin Cushion Paris Hilton.

Until next time, remember to put another log in the stove for Grandma.

Thursday, June 18, 2009

Today’s edition of From Beyond the Grave finds us blessed with the presence of much-loved late night talk show host Johnny Carson. In case you are wondering, yes, all dead people are named Johnny (see "From Beyond the Grave, Part 1"). During his 2000 year run on NBC as host of “The Tonight Show,” Johnny created many memorable characters, including Carnac the Magnificent, pictured above.

What the average fan is unaware of however, is that far from being a character created by a team of amphetamine addicted staff writers, Carnac was in fact created by Johnny himself. Johnny had always yearned to make his psychic powers public, but feared the backlash of his audience, composed mainly of people who were old, white, and stupid. Carnac gave Johnny a safe outlet to display his psychic prowess, and in fact the entire skit was unscripted and the envelopes contained blank pages. Johnny actually knew the answers!

Today, Johnny has graciously agreed to take a break from lounging around poolside in Heaven with former Playboy playmates who committed suicide after sleeping with Hugh Hefner in order to answer a question or two for us. We tried to pay Ed McMahon five dollars to appear as Johnny’s sidekick for old time’s sake, but he snatched it out of our hand and scootered off before we could catch him. He was last spotted scooting away from a corner store doubling a transvestite hooker and toting a large magnum of screw top wine. We certainly won't offer to pay him up front next time.

Johnny was even kind enough to appear dressed as Carnac for this interview. In fact he told us that believe it or not, even dressed like that, you can still get strange tail in Heaven. What an awesome place that must be!

RBG: Johnny, thanks for appearing here today, this is truly an honour!

Johnny: Really, RBG, it’s the least I could do. Your blog has about as many readers as my show had viewers that mattered to advertisers near the end, so glad I could help out.

RBG: Okay, Johnny, I am going to think of a question about a topic or person, and I would like you to think of an answer to that topic or question. Don’t worry about the envelopes.

Johnny: Shit, I had Jesus stop by Kinko’s to stock me up just in case, but that’s alright, he can probably use them to solicit donations or something. Well, go ahead RBG, think away!

RBG: Here goes. I am thinking of my first question. Okay. Got it.

Johnny: “Terd nuggets, best reasons to consider retroactive abortion, lowering the collective IQ of the world.”

RBG: Johnny, that’s amazing! The question I had in mind was “What do people think about the contestants on the execrable TV show ‘I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here!’?”

RBG: Wow Johnny! That’s incredible! The question I had thought of was “How in the hell are Katie Holmes and Suri Cruise ever going to escape from Scientology nut and couch-jumper extraordinaire Tom Cruise?”

Johnny: Well, lad, I’ve got time for one more. I’ve got a massage booked with Dorothy Stratten at ten.

RBG: I’m thinking…okay, there it is.

Johnny: “Get married to each other in Vermont, adopt seventeen Zimbabwean children, catastrophic tabloid-fodder breakup.”

RBG: Well, that was certainly an interesting answer! Not what I expected. The question I was thinking of was “What does the future hold for the careers of Hottest Bachelor listers Chace Crawford and Zac Effron?”

Johnny: Glad I was able to clear up some of these issues for you, RBG. Well, I’d better get going, if I’m late with Dorothy, she makes me pay extra for the “happy ending.”

Sunday, June 14, 2009

It’s three a.m. In an upstairs bedroom in a vast mansion in Lebanon, Tennessee, a phone rings on a bedside nightstand, startling awake the bed’s lone muppet-faced occupant.

Reba (sleepily): Howdy, y’all.

Kathy: Reba, it’s me.

Reba: Is this Leann Rahms agin? What now? You need another cover story about a-sleeping at mah house for the naht so yer husband don’t git suspicious?

Kathy: No, Reba. It’s Kathy.

Reba: Kathy? Kathy Griffin?

Kathy: Yes, Reba, Kathy. Kathy Griffin.

Reba: What in tarnation are you a callin’ for at this time of night. Why you even callin’ at all for that matter. I thought I told you to leave the past in the past, girl. What’s dun is dun.

Kathy: I know we agreed to go our separate ways and never speak of what happened between us, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think of you once in a while.

Reba: Are you drunk? Jesus almighty girl. You got the common sense of a moonshiner with two busted taillights and an expired license plate, I swear, drunk dialin’ lahk this.

Kathy: I’m a little fucked up. I was down in the VIP at the Viper room earlier and things got a little crazy. I might have snorted a little coke out of Tara Reid’s belly button. Or Lindsay Lohan’s buttcrack, I’m not sure. It was one of those wastes of skin, anyway.

Reba: What the hell do you want, Kathy? Ah need to git up early tumorrah tah go duck huntin’ with Kelly Clarkson.

Kathy: It’s our son, I’m really worried about him.

Reba: How many tahms have ah got to tell ya, no amount of donut-bumpin’ and rug-munchin’ and clam-bakin’ can beget a child, you moron.

Kathy: Say what you will, if you must, Reba, but I know the truth. When I ran away from home and hitchhiked South, I never expected to find love. When I enrolled at the Chockie, Oklahoma, School ofSecretaryin’, Makeuppin’, and Autobody Repair, and found myself rooming with you in that one room trailer-dorm, you introduced me to the charms of a true Suthern Lady. I’ll never forget catching a glimpse of us in that broken mirror above the wash basin, it looked like I was being ravaged by a huge ginger Tribble, quite a thrill for a dyed in the wool Trekkie from up North. You can’t deny that our love created this child.

Reba: No, ah can’t deny it. But Doctors and Geneticists and Grade School Textbooks can. You need tah leave that poor boy alone, he’s sufferin’ enough public ridicule as it is. Yuh probaly got knocked up on one a yer drunken escapades down at the National Guard barracks.

Kathy: That’s so not true! I know you are his Mother, and so am I! He needs our help right now. He’s on the ‘roids and he’s scaring the shit out of everyone who sees him! He looks like the evil clown from kids’ dreams that tries to butter their muffins! What happened to our little beautiful orange boy? We need to help him!

Reba: This conversation’s over. Ah’m a tahred of all a yer ridiculous claims and accusations. You need to git right with that boy and git him straightened out. Now good bye and don’t call here agin.

Kathy: No! Wait! Reba! Can’t we just put on our sun hats and little white gloves like real Suthern Ladies and trowel a little mound for old time’s sake?

Reba: Take care a yerself, Kathy. *click*

Kathy Griffin and Reba Mcentire were certainly not the first young ladies to find sapphic love their first time away from home at a Secretaryin’ and Trades College. What makes their story unique however, is Kathy’s insistence to this day that her and Reba’s penetrationless union produced a love child. Although she has not been able to produce any proof, some say their alleged son’s picture is all the proof Kathy needs:

“I already had no valid chance of needing my testicles looking like this, so why not go on the juice?”

With Reba’s hair and Kathy’s looks, Carrot Top could very well be the product of their star-crossed romance, but until all the facts are known, we here at B’s Almost True Hollywood Stories will leave the judgment up to you, Dear Reader.

PS: Although we would never support something as terrible as the Kick a Ginger fiasco in which children with red hair were kicked at school, if you should happen across one of these Gingers, please, kick them.

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

“I could’ve been a contendant, but instead I got opposited by that sausage party loving homersexshul. Darn stupid-brain, you let me down. What do I need you for anyway? My boobies take me more places than you do. They should be my brain, then I could of wonned this whole Missus Unicef thing.”

Ahh, Carrie, where to begin? It seemed like you had so much potential. You had your career path laid out in front of you and your future seemed so bright. Everything was going according to your well-crafted master plan: Look good, keep mouth shut, give blowjobs to billionaires to win rigged beauty pageants, bag rich pageant sponsor as husband, have fresh rose petals sprinkled over your duvet every evening for the rest of your life. Lazy days spent in private jets and poolside as the trophy wife of a Saudi Arabian oil magnate or Texan owner of a chain of used car dealerships were almost within your grasp.

If everything went smoothly, no one would ever have to know about those silly little pictures of you with your tits hanging out of your shirt. You know, the ones that were caused by that freak gust of wind? Yes, that’s right, the ones where your top was horrifyingly, disturbingly, unexpectedly, and super-accidentally blown open in the breeze and you are gazing directly into the camera with that “Come fuck me anyone, but preferably someone with money” look on your face. Sorry. I mean that “Please rescue me Lord Jesus Almighty, My Saviour, from Beelzebub’s gusty grasp!” look on your face. Plus it could be worse, those polaroids of you in the middle of a dogpile composed of the entire UCLA Bruins football team defensive line could have popped up. That was a super windy day, everyone’s clothes got blown off, even their condoms!

Yup, everything was right on track. Until that little fella that likes fellas too much asked that stupid question about fellas who like fellas too much getting married even though it goes against all of God’s and your Dad’s commands, and is probably the chief reason Baby Jesus is even bawling in the first place. You didn’t have any choice but to answer with your heart, despite the fact that your heart’s vocabulary isn’t too hot, it’s not very intelligent, and it’s a homophobic Fundamentalist Christian dipshit. Sadly, the brain thing just wasn’t an option. You knew the talking would be the killer, but would it be too much to ask to get just one frickin’ question that required the following time worn pageant friendly answer bites: volunteering, emancipation, prestidigitation, multivariate calculus, puppies, and world peace? Well, it’s all over but the crying now. And maybe a few dozen cringe-worthy public appearances and interviews. The important thing is where do you go from here? In an effort to turn that frown upside down, we are pleased to present you with some other future career options for your consideration. After identifying your skills and abilities and particularly your fondness for opposites, we think we have found some employment choices that are a good fit for you:

Porn fluffer on the set of the new Hustler Video series Carrie CreamJeans goes Opposite.

Prop for a Gallagher comedy show.

Gas station restroom attendant.

Life Size Barbie Impersonator at openings of new Toys-R-Us locations.

High Priced Hooker catering strictly to Televangelists that like to visit the rumpus room.

Useless Douchebag

You may never get that car dealership owner but you still have a shot at servicing the mechanics on their lunch break, behind the dealership, in your minivan after you drop off the kids’ lunches at school.

Good luck to you Miss Prejean, you’ll be fine (probably, anyway).

“Is it possible for me to give this interview without talking? You could even turn on a fan if you want. Who knows what could happen with a little breeze. I’m just sayin’ is all.”

Saturday, June 6, 2009

Hmm. You are asking yourself: What in the name of Christ is a Patterdale Terrier? Well, this is a Patterdale Terrier, named, deceivingly enough (the deceiving part will be explained later), Belle:

Belle is a Patterdale cross of some sort, we don’t really know what the cross part is, but she definitely tends to the Patterdale side of the genetic equation. She is all of twelve pounds soaking wet , and she came to us in kind of a roundabout fashion. My wife’s coworkers had brought a little puppy to town for some people, and when they showed up at the intended recipient’s door with her, the people informed them that they had changed their mind about having a puppy. The couple who were delivering her didn’t have the heart to take her to the pound, so they took her into work with them. That’s where my wife comes into the picture. She told the puppy deliverers to take the dog to our house, because I was at home and could take care of her until my wife got back from work at which time she would undertake the arduous task of finding the pup a “good home.” That afternoon, I heard a knock at the door, opened it, had a puppy, blanket, some food, and a toy put in my arms and watched my wife’s coworkers drive off. I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to keep the tiny black ball of fur from shrieking and wiping piss and shit up off of the kitchen floor. For some reason, as we drove around town with her safely ensconced in a blanketed cardboard box, none of the friends and acquaintances we showed her to were quite good enough to have her, despite their pleadings to the contrary. Wow, I thought, my wife must want to find this puppy a really super good home!

About a week later, I had to go to a logging camp for a couple of weeks, so my wife bundled up the pup and we made the 45 minute drive to the crewboat departure point. As the boat pulled away from the dock, I looked back to see my wife standing there, holding the dog and waving goodbye. Uh Oh. On one of my phone calls home about a week into my stay I inquired about how the home search for the puppy was going. “You mean Belle?” my wife replied. Christ. It had a name. I told one of the guys I worked with about it and he said: “If it’s got a name, it’s yours now!” And it was. That was a little over two years ago now. Never, ever, let a woman find a puppy a good home. No matter how much she tries to convince you she’s trying to do the right thing, she is lying. Consider yourself forewarned.

I have never had any use for small dogs. All of the small dogs I had ever known were hairball barfing, couch-pissing, growling and snapping little pieces of shit that hated everyone but their loving owner. To my way of thinking, big dogs were the way to go. They could catch frisbees and shit, eat nighttime intruders, and provide a big enough meal for a grizzly bear to give their owners time to escape. Useful qualities, to be sure. This dog however, soon began to change my mind about small dogs. Turns out Patterdales are an English breed and they are bred as working hunting dogs, used to hunt all manner of vermin from rats to nutria (whatever the hell a nutria is, they’re a hell of a lot bigger than the dogs). They are much loved for their aggressive natures and calm family temperaments. This is no lap dog. Right from the start, she was a freakin’ psycho to rough house with. No cowering, no sniveling, no hiding under mummy’s skirt, just pure unadulterated attack. Fun stuff, to be sure. The only way I can think of to describe it would be to play volleyball with a bag of razor blades or hypodermic needles for a ball. Many punctures were commonplace, and believe me, all my fault. Her aggressive drive was so strong that if you held her down for a while in the middle of a fight, and let her go, she would do ten rounds of the perimeter of the room at friggin’ Mach 1 just to burn off the frustration of not being able to kill you. The best part was that when playtime was over, I just had to say “Be nice” and she would calm right down and roll over for a belly rub.

On April 24th of this year, our realtor had scheduled a showing for our house, so I did what I usually did for the showings, loaded Belle up in the pickup and took a drive for about three quarters of an hour. This time, I decided to go and check on the progress of the snowmelt on a logging road we wanted to start using in a few weeks. As I came to the end of the clear road and encountered the snow, I made the sensible man decision to see how far I could get through it. Fifteen feet, that’s how far. I fell through the rotten snow and got the pickup stuck right in the middle of the road. As I opened the door to survey the scene, Belle, as was her norm, jumped out to have a sniff around. Unfortunately, this time she caught a whiff of something and the run was on, straight up the road in the direction we had just come from. Repeated calls couldn’t get her to even slow down, and as she approached the crest of the hill in the distance, I finally yelled at her to stop, hard. She screeched to a halt, turned around, ran back toward me fifty feet, caught the scent again, turned around and disappeared over the crest of the hill. Now I was pissed off. I trudged up the hill, steam escaping my ears, and when I got to the top I could see about another two hundred metres down the road. No Belle. I spent four hours that afternoon, calling and looking for her, and after driving back to town and getting our German Shepherd, Keiko, to take back and help me look, another three hours that evening. That was thirty kilometers east of town, on the other side of the mighty Skeena River and four kilometres up a logging road…not good. Over the next weeks we made many, many trips to the spot and spent dozens of hours looking but unfortunately, to no avail. In that split second I had lost sight of her, a predator had obviously snatched her. Needless to say, the whole family was a little upset, and I felt very guilty about it.

We posted notices around town offering a reward, in case she had made it out to the highway and been picked up, but after a few phone calls that didn’t turn out to be her, we had to start to acknowledge the reality of what was going on. When the phone rang at 10:30 in the evening on Wednesday, May 27th, my wife could be forgiven for being a little irritated. She did have to work at six the next morning and she was already in bed. Wondering who the hell could be calling from a pay phone at that time of night, she was surprised to hear the voice on the other end of the line ask if we had lost a dog recently. Yes, she said. Was it’s name Belle?, the voice asked. How do you know that? she asked. I got her name and phone number off her little red tag, the man’s voice answered. No shit. Are you freaking kidding me? She came running downstairs yelling, “Brent, someone found Belle!" We jumped in our vehicle and went to the gas station the men were parked at, and when we pulled up and they opened the door, there she was. Well, what was left of her anyway. The last time we had seen her, she was about twelve pounds, and now she was a little over seven. You could feel every bone in her body, and she was very weak. The men were a pair of hunters out on their ATVs and they had found her trotting down the road near where we had lost her, passing porcupines and bears like it was no big deal. She had been there in the bush the whole time. Thirty-four days. Our version of the wild forest is pretty serious stuff, too. As far as predators go, there are wolves, black bears, grizzly bears, wolverines, coyotes, foxes, lynx, cougars, and let’s not forget the air force, the bald and golden eagles, hawks, and falcons. All of them wouldn’t be scared to take advantage of the opportunity to grab a rabbit-sized animal like Belle. There was even still snow on the ground in parts of the timber. The hunters seemed pretty happy with the two hundred dollars they didn’t know they had coming, as they’d had no idea about the reward.

So she’s back home, and getting fattened up again, and slowly but surely her personality is making a comeback. She was pretty timid when she got home, much as anyone would be, I expect, if they had just been dumped off in the wild unexpectedly, and for over a month. My wife never gave up hope of finding her, although I had thought she was gone immediately. With a name like Belle, you wouldn’t expect her to be able to survive the gamut of teeth and claws listed off in the previous paragraph. That’s the deceiving part.

Thursday, June 4, 2009

If you’re wondering who in the hell that is in the picture on the left, then you probably won’t find the rest of this post particularly interesting. If you do know who that is, however, and what he is doing in that picture, then you recognize him as the last (and best) hero of his generation. If icons could have icons, Lloyd’s boombox blaring Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes” would fit the bill to a t.

The generation I am speaking of, of course, is none other than those of us who had the misfortune of living through the 1980’s as teenagers. Although we didn’t know it at the time, the misfortune would come to roost later, as we cringed looking through photo albums filled with mullets, sleeveless flag t-shirts, white linen suits paired with a robin’s egg blue shirt (sleeves pushed up of course, thanks Crockett and Tubbs!), and parties where people actually seem to be enjoying themselves listening to Wham! That’s just one of my photo albums. I imagine everyone my age has one hidden away somewhere. Unfortunately, our kids will never look at our old pictures and say “Wow. My dad and/or mom was really cool when they were my age!” They’re more likely to say “Holy ferret attack! What the hell is that on your goddamn head?” meaning your hair, or “Flaming Shitmissiles! Is this picture from some sort of Mock U.N. school thing or something?” when seeing your sleeveless Union Jack or Rising Sun t-shirts. After we survived all the spandex, neon, hairspray, self absorption and (shudder) Kajagoogoo, Lloyd arrived on the scene to usher in a new era for our generation, The Next Step.

Lloyd Dobler lived with his older sister, was a slob, was too smart for his own good, and really only had two ambitions in life: to become a professional kickboxer, and more importantly, to woo and romance the untouchable, brainy, and beautiful Diane Court. He was graduating High School and getting ready to head out into the world, much like we were or recently had, and he was just a regular guy. Not sure what he was going to do with his future, he knew he didn’t want to buy or sell anything, or process anything bought or sold, or repair anything bought, processed, or sold. So mostly he was just going to focus on kickboxing.

Kickboxing! I think we all had our own little kickboxing dream we were nurturing, just turning the corner to responsibility and adulthood. My own dream was to draw, or write, or draw and write, or just get lost in a lifetime of the appreciation and love of words as an English professor. As far as the English professor thing goes, I was a little naive about the alcoholic, co-ed womanizing job requirements. I know all about it now though, I’ve seen movies! Mostly, however, like Lloyd, I just sat around drinking beer with my buddies. Lloyd said the things we always wanted to say, but never had the balls to; when Diane tells him they can only be friends he replies “Sure. Friends… with potential.” I bet we all had one of those heart-breaking conversations back in the puppy-love days, but I don’t imagine many of us had the guts to add “with potential.” Lloyd didn’t let things like socioeconomic status, school stereotypes, or common sense get in the way of his goals, and in a way his attitude put the perfect cap on the almost-over 80’s and their self-indulgent shallowness. Lloyd might not have fit the mold of a wall-streeter’s go-getter, but he knew what he wanted and he was damn well going to get it. He was “Looking for a ‘Dare to be great’ situation.” and in a way, we all were too.

The great thing about this movie, and Lloyd, is that the story and his character still hold up today, and sorry to say, Zac Exxon and Shia Ladouche, you’re no Cusacks. I must have watched this movie twenty times, and I still get a kick out of it. So do yourself a favour, buy a case of beer, rent this movie, and take a little step back to when you were looking for a “Dare to be great” situation. Yes, I said beer. You weren’t drinking goddamn Merlot at the parties back in the day, so if you want a true state-dependent memory thing going on, pool your allowances and get your friend’s older brother to drive his shitty old El Camino down to the Quik-E-Mart to buy you a case of the cheap stuff. Knock back a few, and remember when the world was wide open and waiting for you, long before you got swallowed up and spat out by it.

Bonus points go to any commenter that can stump me with a super-frickin’ awesome quote from the flick that I am unable to attribute to the proper character.

Whoever is the creator of this delightful prose and probing and insightful commentary?

I've always been a great fan of the classics, updated for a new world and time. Monet? No. Monet Monet? You got that right Billy. In my world Leonardo is a Ninja Turtle or that homeless kid from Family Ties. Homer's Odyssey? There isn't a single mention of Marge in there! I'm the new unknown, illiterate face of the White Trash Literati, and I'm helping to redefine cultural ignorance for a whole new generation.

I'm a proud Canadian! We're sort of like Americans but kind of British-y.

Sadly, like many Canadian men of my generation, I have been suffering with a chronic case of beaver fever that struck me soon after the onset of puberty. There is no known cure, but therapeutic doses of sexual congress with ladies has been shown to help control the debilitating symptoms, and provide some measure of relief.

Some thrifty and inexpensive ideas to amuse yourself during these tough economic times: